A Croc Called Capone (14 page)

‘Yo, Marc,' he said, pulling a can of cola from his ridiculous jacket and popping the ring-pull. ‘Wassup, dude?'

I slumped down into the mud. I had to catch my breath.

‘Dyl, ya dill,' I panted. ‘What the hell are you doing? You were supposed to stay, you moron. That's why I was creating the diversion. To give you all the chance to escape.'

Dylan sat down and took a long slurp from his can. He wore an offended expression.

‘Yeah, I know what I was
meant
to do,' he said. ‘But we are buddies, Marc. You and me. Like last time. Partners on a mission. Fatman and Robin. And I wasn't going to miss out
again
. This is unbelievably cool.'

I wished I could have shared his sentiments. I watched as the circle of crocs closed in once again and I was glad Dylan was with me.

It may have been selfish, but I was glad.

Murray hadn't moved. He was staring at us. The distance was too great to be entirely sure, but I think his bottom jaw was scraping his boots. I waved.

‘Get Cy out of here,' I yelled. ‘And get help.'

I'd left him with no option. He made as if to move towards us, but then his shoulders slumped. He put Cy over one slumped shoulder and waded away. I had no idea how far it was to civilisation but I knew he'd be back. And that Cy was safe. We watched until he'd disappeared from sight.

I looked around. It was just the three of us, now. Me, Dyl and Blacky. Oh, and seven very large specimens of the most ruthless predator in the world.

‘Wrong, bucko,' said Blacky. ‘
Homo sapiens
is, by a long distance, the most ruthless predator in the world.'

‘Shut up, Blacky,' I said. ‘Believe me, I am
not
in the mood.'

And what exactly did Dyl mean by Fatman?

Maybe I needed to lose weight.

Finally, the huge saltie spoke.

‘Buongiorno,' said Al. ‘I would kissa you, both cheeks, but is difficult, I think. Instead, I offer respect, my family to your family. I also offer food. Would be good, huh? Pasta and meatballs in ma special sauce. But this difficult, too. Howsabout a little bitta wild pig? Fresh kill.'

Look. I might have explained all this before, but I can't actually speak directly to other animals. I can only talk to Blacky. He, in turn, can communicate with a few other animals, Al apparently being one. So this conversation had to be channelled through Blacky. But it would be really tiring, not to mention boring, if I reported our three-way conversation as it actually happened. So, I'll just tell you what Al said as if he'd said it to me.

I turned down the kind offer of food. I wasn't hungry, but even if I had been, I didn't relish snacking on raw pig. I also felt this was not the best time to point out that I'd been tempted by the croc burger at the restaurant the day before yesterday. Knowing my luck, it would have been his mother and that would have blown all the family respect business.

‘This my family,' continued Al. ‘I do introductions. This brother and
consigliere
Guiseppe, other brother Paolo, sons Alfredo, Vito, Luigi and Rocco.'

Each croc, in turn, lifted a front leg in greeting. I gave small waves back, before I realised how ridiculous this was. Rocco the croc-o? I took a time-out with Blacky.

‘What's with all the Mafia stuff?' I hissed. ‘These are dinky-di Aussie animals. “G'day, mate, beaut, slap a prawn on the barbie and let's crack a cold one from the esky, no worries” I might have expected. Certainly not a bad imitation of
Goodfellas
.'

If Blacky could have shrugged, I dare say he would've.

‘No idea, tosh,' he said. ‘Maybe they've watched too many episodes of
The Sopranos
.'

‘Blacky,' I said. ‘
The Sopranos
? What? On a forty-two inch plasma screen in their front room, while waiting for the pizza delivery guy to front up?'

‘Okay. Maybe
I've
watched too many episodes of
The
Sopranos
. But you've got to admit it is appropriate. These guys are pretty ruthless.'

‘You are one sick puppy,' I said. ‘No pun intended. And your sense of humour is similarly sick.'

So, too, his sense of geography, I thought. The Sopranos had American accents, not this cheap-Italian-pasta-sauce-commercial stereotype.

‘Everyone's a critic these days,' said Blacky in a snotty tone.

I ignored him.

Mind you, I had to admit the Italian angle
was
fitting, though I'd die before I told Blacky. Then I remembered that I was probably going to die anyway. Then I remembered I couldn't keep my thoughts from Blacky in any case. He chuckled in my head. I hate that dog.

‘I've gotta pee,' said Dylan.

‘And how are you going to manage that, mate?' I asked. ‘Ask if you can use their croc dunny?'

‘Nah,' said Dyl. ‘But I'm busting. I'll have to do it here. Just turn your back.'

‘Dylan,' I replied, with more than a touch of exasperation in my voice. ‘We have just gone through the whole business involving snack food. You whip anything out here, they're going to take it as an invitation to go for a cocktail sausage.'

Dylan mulled this over.

‘I guess I could hold on,' he said.

Al had been patient during all this. Now he continued.

‘My sons, here, they notta keen on talking,' he said. ‘Rocco, he no like talk, talk, talk. He want action. Headstrong, like his Papa when I wassa his age.'

I had no idea which one was Rocco. All of them looked as though they were keen on action, especially if it involved chewing on human limbs. I kept quiet and tried to appear as if I was paying close attention. Which, to be honest, I was.

‘But I amma still Head of da Family. I say, we needa make business legitimate. No more gang wars. No more taking outta da rival families in restaurant bloodbaths. Thatsa the past. The future? It abouta da lawyers and corporate meetings, not machine guns and garrottes.'

I sighed. Blacky didn't need me to say anything.

‘Sorry, tosh,' he said. ‘I'm just doing my best to keep him in character. Have you any idea how boring it is being a translator?'

‘Fine,' I replied. ‘Just don't make stuff up, all right? This is difficult enough as it is.'

It was slightly better after that. At least Al came to the point and I found out what the other half of the mission involved. Of course, that didn't mean I had any chance of completing it.

‘Is he nuts, Blacky?' I said. ‘Hang on. Do not pass on that thought! But let me get this clear. He wants me to stop the proposed government law that would allow big-game hunters to shoot crocs in the Northern Territory?' I remembered what Brendan had said on the croc cruise. Boy, that seemed a long time ago. He'd mentioned how trophy hunters were illegally killing crocodiles, but he'd also said something about the government allowing wealthy people to shoot them for sport. At a price.

‘Tell him I'm sympathetic.' And I was. Of course I was. ‘But I'm just a kid. I can't get my mum to change her mind, let alone a government.'

Al chewed this over.

‘But thissa new world. Communication revolution. You use that.'

What was he talking about? I couldn't make it out. Anyway, this all seemed one-sided. What about crocodile attacks? If he was serious about finding a new way to live with human beings, shouldn't he reconsider his disturbing tendency to chow down on passing tourists?

‘Hey. I act in good faith. This human I letta go, he kill. He kill my brother. No respect my family. But I let him go. Now
you
do something for
me
. Capisce?'

It was my turn to chew things over. I spotted a hidden threat in his words – not very well hidden, come to think of it – but Al
was
right. It must have taken a strong will to allow Murray to walk out of there. But I still couldn't see how to help. Blacky interrupted my thoughts.

‘You're being a twonk, boyo. Yeah, crocs kill people. But think about it. You guys come into his territory, knowing his nature. You fish, you swim in his swimming holes. Some of you kill crocs to make shoes and handbags out of their skins. What do you expect from a wild animal when you mess around in his habitat? If you go to the zoo, you don't hop into the lion enclosure to enjoy a close-up. And, frankly, if you do then you've only got yourself to blame when it all goes belly-up. Or belly-ripped-up.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘I take your point. I just thought ...'

Blacky gave a snort of disgust.

‘Tell you what, tosh. You find a saltwater croc in your front room watching
TV
or raiding your fridge for a bite to eat, you shoot him, okay? We'll call it quits. Until then, admit the injustice is all one-way.'

I scratched my head. Carefully. I didn't want anyone to misinterpret sudden movements.

‘Okay, Blacky,' I said. ‘This isn't the time to argue. But I still don't know what I can
do
. Write a stern letter to the newspaper?'

There was silence while we all thought. The crocodiles didn't move much, which was just as well. There were ten of us crowded on that hillock and you couldn't swing a cat. If I'd tried to swing a cat it would probably be more of a temptation than they could resist. So we sat quietly and gave the problem our full attention.

Then Blacky farted. Even the crocs moved back a little.

‘For God's sake, Blacky,' I cried. ‘I am not having fun here and this is about the last thing I need. Any more foul fumes from you and I'll be
asking
Al to eat me. At least it would be a quicker and more pleasant death.'

And that was when the idea came. It's not often a vile fart gives you blinding inspiration. A blinding headache, maybe. But Blacky couldn't take all the credit. Murray was owed some, too. Murray who, I noticed, had returned with help. My dad, Brendan and his dad, Ted, emerged from the bush onto the edge of the clearing about a hundred metres away.

They made an odd group: man-mountain Murray, Dad with his thin white legs, Brendan with his jug-handle ears and Ted with his torn singlet and stained stubbies. But I was
very
glad to see them.

They stopped when they saw us and I could almost read
their
thoughts. There was no cover to get any closer. Not without spooking the crocs. And no one wanted to spook the crocs.

Even at that distance I could see Dad carried himself like someone who had aged fifty years in five seconds.

He stood next to Ted Branaghan. Ted carried something long and thin. As I watched, he lifted it to his shoulder. There was a flash of sunlight on metal.

Ted lowered the rifle.

I knew what he was thinking. It was too dangerous to risk firing. For one thing, he might hit Dylan or me. For another, even if he managed to get one croc, there were six others who presumably might be stirred up a little by gunfire. He didn't want stirred-up crocs scurrying around anyone's ankles.

I stood and waved my arms. The four men cringed and waved their arms around in turn. It wasn't difficult to get the message.
Stay still
! Attracting attention, at least from their perspective, was the action of a moron. A soon-to-be-digested moron.

So we gazed at each other across an expanse of flooded land. This didn't seem to get us very far. Ted must have come to the same conclusion, because he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. ‘Marcus! Keep very still and very quiet. I've radioed for help and it's on its way. A helicopter with marksmen. It's going to be okay. No worries.'

No worries
? Ten out of ten for optimism. Zero for believability.

‘How long?' I yelled back. The men all cringed again.

‘Less than an hour. Hang in there. And be quiet!'

It was time to put my deal with Al into action.

‘Will there be media with them?' I bellowed. ‘You know, another helicopter with the press?'